Since Laila arrived, he’s been buying tea to bring home every evening, giving her time before suggesting she cooks the evening meal. He doesn’t care what she cooks, as long as it’s not a hamburger or cold chicken and a bread roll. But his insides coil at the thought of another silent meal in the caravan, the blare of the TV filling the silence.
Jim drops the oranges into the fruit bag looped around his neck and fastened to his waist. Only ten in there. He gazes at the row of empty bins running down the path to the end of the block. Against the lushness of the foliage, they resemble white train carriages. He turns away and ignores the voices emanating from them, ‘fill me, fill me’, each bin more painful to look at than the next. It’ll take him weeks to cover the block. After meeting Laila by mail last year, his motivation picked up, but it’s gone downhill again.
Jim clenches his fingers, then stretches them, hoping heat will mysteriously enter his body and warm him up. The cold has set in much earlier this year. His gloved hands are starting to numb. Suddenly he feels raindrops on his nose, then his face. Fingerprints appear on the rind of the fruit in his hand. Oranges are a pain to pick. Rain makes the cells of the rind burst, causing these unwanted finger marks. The blockies will reject his harvest for sure.
A thunderclap explodes above him. Then rain falls in torrents. Water runs down the rim of his cap in rivulets. He remains on the ladder, not bothering to run for cover.
‘Fuck!’
He removes his drenched cap and chucks the fruit onto the ground. It lands in a puddle with a splat. A sense of uselessness wracks him, like when the kids at school taunted him about not having a father, jeering, laughing, pointing, poking, until he was left with a blackness he couldn’t shake off, one that stayed with him all day like a bad smell.
Weighed down by wet clothes, Jim descends the ladder, feeling for the steps with his feet, aware only of the suspended sensation in his legs between steps, and the sheen of wet leaves dangling before his eyes.
His wet socks squish in his shoes as he climbs into the car. Damp clothes sticking to skin, he opens the glove compartment, gropes for the flannel he normally keeps there. He fishes around, bends down and looks inside. No sign of it. He shuts the door of the compartment and curses.
‘Shit! Shit!’
Wiping his face with his palms, he removes his cap and shakes his head to remove water from his hair. He starts to head in the direction of the caravan park, then something makes him slam on the brakes and pull up by the curb. As he sits in the car, rain pelts down on the road, washing over parked cars. The indicator light ticks, the wipers grind across the windscreen.
The thought of returning to the caravan, drenched and irritated, and not sure how Laila’s going to be, makes him anxious. Wind hisses in through the gaps in the window.
It’s worked out for his mate Peter and Marietta, but that doesn’t mean it would work out for everyone else. It was a mistake taking up Peter’s suggestion to get an Asian bride.
Jim recalls the day Peter dished it out. ‘Listen, Jim, if your love life is as I remember it to be, take my advice, check them out.’
Jim didn’t appreciate the air of condescension with which Peter said it. He didn’t need Peter rubbing his history of failed relationships into his face like that, especially in front of everyone at the pub. Peter’s own backyard wasn’t altogether clean either. Jim remembered the whole town talking about Peter having suddenly upped and left Renmark after his first wife left him. The next thing, Peter was back again, flashing a gold band on his wedding ring finger at the pub, saying it was even better second time around.
Peter and his Filipino bride, all rosy and wonderful. Some people are so lucky. Sickening.
Jim looks in the rear-view mirror, checks the road, then swerves the car in a U-turn, heading back to town. He drives around aimlessly for a while, going round and round the same blocks. The rain is every reason to hang out at the pub. By the time he pulls into the car park of Paringa Hotel, the anticipation of a long cool beer is already flowing through his veins.
Three in the afternoon and the pub is nearly full. The rain has drawn in practically the whole town. Smoke gathers in layers at the ceiling, and the sound of balls clacking on the pool table cuts through the laughter and chatter. The pub has a Thursday and Friday night atmosphere.
Across the bar Jim sees faces he knows, someone from the caravan park or the packing shed, a panelbeater he’s seen a few times at the wrecker’s, a ponytailed backpacker who’s just started picking at the block.
Jim likes the familiarity. The place is as it was the first time he stepped in it, when he was in his teens: bar along the length of the room, fridge against the wall, dinner specials scribbled on the blackboard. Stubbies and ashtrays overflowing with butts sit on the tops of upright wooden barrels used as tables. Stools with metal legs swivel or are dragged in and out as people stream in. Tucked away in a corner, the pool table and jukebox throb with life. The musty smell, the stains and holes in the carpet add to his sense of ease. It’s all still the same.
‘Hey, what’s up, mate?’ Jim pushes himself against the bar, smoke curling around him.
‘Like a bloody Friday night this,’ Rodney, the bartender, says. His teeth gleam as they do each time he speaks. He rolls up his sleeves and two tattoos, one of an eagle and another of vine leaves, show.
‘You don’t say.’
‘Freaky weather.’ Wiping the bar, Rodney looks out the door. Shorter than average, he stands on his toes to look over the sea of heads. ‘But it’s all good. Good for business, that’s for sure. The usual?’
‘Yep.’
Rodney holds a glass under the Coopers Pale Ale tap. He sets the glass on a runner on the bar. ‘Here you go, champ.’
Jim fishes out some coins and drops them into Rodney’s palm.
The first drink of the day is always the best. Jim takes a long gulp, feels the liquid sear down his throat. The alcohol burns in his stomach and immediately gives him relief.
By the time he’s on his second, he has forgotten the discomfort of his wet clothes.
‘So how’s your day been, apart from wet?’ Rodney says, rinsing glasses in the sink, grinning. Strands of his long, greased-up fringe fall over his eyes.
Jim hesitates. ‘Crummy, if you want to know the truth.’ ‘You know what they say about asking someone about their day and getting a soapbox?’
‘I’m that sort, huh, pal, you think I’m that sort?’
‘I don’t mind. I’m here all day, if I don’t get hassled by another customer, that is.’
‘So I’m hassling you, am I?’
Rodney heads off to serve someone else. Jim lights a cigarette and puffs away.
‘Hey, got up on the wrong side of the bed or what?’ Rodney says when he returns. ‘Unload if you have to, mate.’
‘Nah, not worth it. It’s nothing anyway.’
‘Nothing’s ever nothing, but suit yourself.’
Jim gives him a glum look, then surveys the place. Nearby the pot-belly heater is giving off warmth. He feels the cold disappearing from his body. One small token pleasure in life.
‘So, what’s the latest? Heard anything lately?’ Jim says.
‘More of the same. Angoves selling up, they say.’
‘No shit. They’re one of the biggest around the place. Can’t imagine. Who to?’
‘Dunno. Won’t be surprised if it’s to some foreigner, some Japanese or Korean. And the next thing you know, a bunch of Asians’ll be running around the place. Bet they’ll bring along their chopsticks.’ Rodney chuckles.
‘Hey, cut out that shit. Asian, Aussie, what’s the difference?’
‘Oh yeah, I remember now. Heard about your Asian lady friend. How’s that going?’
Jim looks away, then says, ‘Fine.’
‘Yeah? Well, it’ll be good for the property market at least, I mean the foreigners buying in. These people need somewhere to live, don’t they?’
The mention of homes raises Jim’s atte
ntion.
‘What are rentals like anyway?’ he says.
‘No idea. Why, you wanting to rent?’
‘Nah, just curious.’
‘You know who can advise you? Bloke over there, owns a few homes to my knowledge.’
Rodney points to a tall grey-haired man standing a few feet from them. Before Jim can stop him, Rodney is gesturing.
‘Hey, Paul, come over here.’
Paul walks towards them, bulky, brushing elbows and shoulders. ‘What’s up?’
‘Paul, you’re the rental guru, right? Jim over here wants to know about renting.’
Jim pretends they’re not looking his way.
‘So, what do you wanna know?’ Paul asks, looking directly into Jim’s face.
Jim is now pressed up against the bar, with Paul standing only inches from him.
‘Er…well, just curious you know about how much rents are around the place.’
‘Depends, if it was a house or a unit. And where it’s located. I’ve got a few of each. Rent for the units is ninety dollars a week. The houses, a hundred and fifty for one, one-sixty for another. They’re up that way, you know.’ Paul points his finger in the air.
Jim makes a quick calculation in his head. He only pays thirty dollars a week for space in the caravan park. He feels blood draining from his face. He feigns a blank expression.
‘Ah right. Cheers, I’ll keep that in mind,’ he says.
Then he takes his glass from the bar and slowly inches his way towards the opposite end of the room.
The caravan is dim by the time Jim staggers home. Only the outside light is on. Long shadows linger on the gravel. Laila is already asleep. He’d have to rummage through the wardrobe in the dark for his sleeping bag. Shit. He shouldn’t have stowed it away this morning.
Hunger pangs hit him and he remembers he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime. It’s also the first time he’s missed having tea with Laila. Five days and already it feels like five months. A penance.
He removes his shoes outside the caravan and turns the key. The door creaks open. He takes careful steps but bumps against the chair and loses his balance. Thud. He lands on the floor on all fours. Pain shoots through his knees.
‘Shit,’ he mutters under his breath. His hand flies to his mouth. Then he reaches for the edge of the table. The bed rustles and he sees Laila turning.
‘Sorry, babe,’ he says.
In the darkness, he can only see the outline of her form under the covers. Holding the table, he steadies himself and gets up. He stands still, unsure what to do, waiting for some sign from Laila, but she remains motionless. A stirring suddenly starts and pulsates above the throb of his knees. He imagines what her body looks like under the covers, her stomach flat, her little hips twisted up in the sheets. One leg would be stretched out, the other curled up. He feels blood moving through his body, feels the urge to run his hands over her skin. He walks towards the bed, gently lifts the covers and slides his body beside hers.
‘Sorry for waking you up, Laila,’ he says to the back of her head.
He inches closer, careful not to cause any movement in the bed. His fingers brush her back.
Laila suddenly turns over and says, ‘You smell like Pak after he has drunk all that tuak!’ Then she shifts and turns her back towards him.
He feels as if he has just been struck. He gently draws away from her and steps out of the bed. He staggers to the wardrobe, gropes for his sleeping bag and pulls it out.
5
LAILA SECRETLY LOVES THE common bathroom. Twice the size of the bilik, toilet cubicles on one side, showers on another. Alone, she skips from one end to the other, spins her body in front of the wall-to-wall mirror. She runs her fingers across the glossy white wall tiles, feels the floor tiles with her toes. She basks in her reflection, remembering the tiny mirror hung in the bilik which the whole family used, where she had to move her head upwards and downwards and side to side to catch the image of her whole face.
Now she turns on the hot water tap, then the cold. She’s not getting scalded again like the first time! She lets the water run for a few minutes before adjusting the taps. Then she tests the temperature with her fingers before stepping into the shower.
Water cascades over her body, gliding off her skin along with the grime, everything spiralling down the drain hole. She closes her eyes, stands still. She thinks about how she used to bathe in the Rejang River, wrapping her body in a sarong, discreetly soaping her privates under the folds.
When her troubles seem to have washed clean away, Laila puts on fresh clothes and pads across to the basins. Two women are there, huddled together. They look old, one with a shock of grey hair.
‘Woolworths have them too,’ one says.
‘Yes, but they don’t trap the dirt as well. And they move under your feet,’ says the other.
‘No, you don’t want them shifting around, do you, especially in the small space.’
Laila chooses the basin at the farthest end. She’s squeezing toothpaste on to her toothbrush when the grey-haired woman catches her eye in the mirror, and looks at her. Laila averts her gaze. After brushing her teeth she removes the towel wrapped around her head and dries her hair with it.
‘I’ll get Darryl to have a look at it over the weekend. You know how fussy he is.’
‘Good idea. Better that than having to return it after.’
As Laila is about to brush her hair, the hairbrush slips from her hand. She lunges sideways to retrieve it but the brush tumbles to the floor. The grey-haired woman glances her way again.
‘You alright there, dear?’
Laila picks up the brush. ‘Yes, thanks.’
The lady smiles at her. ‘New to the place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Sarawak.’
She turns to the other lady. ‘Did you hear that, Gladys? How interesting. Isn’t that on the island of Borneo?’
‘Yes, but it’s part of Malaysia.’
‘Is that right? We’re from Mount Gambier, Gladys and I. Been travelling around, with our husbands.’
‘Mount Gambier?’ Laila asks. She decides that these two are nicer than the others she’s seen.
‘Yes, down in the south-east. Just stopping here for a few weeks. Then up to Darwin. To escape the winter, you know.’
‘I see. You’re having a holiday then?’
‘Kind of. We move all over the place. Our caravans are down that way.’ The grey-haired woman points her arm in a sideways direction.
The other woman angles her head sideways. ‘So what brings you to Australia?’
Laila brings the brush to her hair. She pauses. Her eyes rest on her reflection in the mirror. She takes in a deep breath and faces the women.
‘Just visiting friends,’ she says, then she faces the mirror again and brushes her hair in long bold strokes.
It’s her first venture out of the caravan park on her own. The wind rips into her flesh. ‘Crazy autumn winds,’ Jim had said at the café. Branches sway, leaves rustle.
Laila quickens her step. The road winds between trees and shrubs. The sky peeps through in patches of light. Behind her the river meanders, the glint of water disappearing as she follows the curve of the road. As the gale picks up, she pulls her track top tight over her body and folds her arms. Jim’s track top. He offered to take her shopping for warm clothing but she refused. She won’t let him pay for her clothes, and she won’t buy any herself.
Pockets of shops and houses come into view. She passes a shop selling fruits, crates sitting outside, scribbled signs made of cardboard, ‘Bulk Riverland oranges, $12 per crate’. Sheds appear here and there, people inside working on something or other.
Rows of homes line the road, fronted by large neat gardens, one with an entire wall covered with creepers. She follows the twirl of the branches etched against the white of the wall. Then she catches sight of a red brick house beside it. Her heart skips a beat. It looks exactly
like the house in Jim’s photo. Her eyes scan the white window frames, porch held up by fat pillars, the straight lines of the grey roof. It’s only when she scrutinises the front lawn that she realises it’s not the same house: there is no white fence around it.
The front door of the house opens and two women step out. They walk around the side of the house, to the carport. Laila senses from their conversation that one is seeing the other to the car. She crouches behind a bush, hears the murmurs of the two women.
Half of her wants to get up and leave but the other half is glued to the spot. Her eyes fix on the front doorway. She leans forward and cranes her neck. If they catch her, they will suspect she is a burglar but she can’t stop herself. She leaps onto the porch, faces the hallway. The carpet is light green, the pile thick. She imagines how it would feel under her soles. Turning around to check, she steps into the house. It has the stillness and silence of an expensive home. She crouches down, places her palm on the carpet. She closes her eyes. It is as she imagined.
She takes in the sweep of the archway. The antique style of the hallway table is repeated in the furniture inside. Turned legs, ornate handles, richly grained wood, patterns of dark brown. Glass bowls sitting on shelves sparkle like diamonds. There is so much to absorb—paintings, sofa in a rich fabric with a thin cord running along the edges, wall lights with gold fittings.
She inches closer, casting her eyes over the room until they reach the centrepiece, a massive chandelier. Cascades of cut glass shimmer, coloured light rains on her. She is swirling in the light, trance-like, when she catches the heady sweet smell of fresh flowers. She looks around and spots them on a small table, a spray of pinks and yellows, petals like crepe paper, twigs shooting towards the ceiling.
Her surroundings sweep over her like a wave. She could explore the bedrooms—but suddenly she hears a car door shutting. Then, through the windows, the car engine starting. The woman is coming back. Her eyes dart to the front door. She ducks out of the house, races across the front lawn. She sees the woman waving to the car while walking back into the house. A cold chill seizes her. She arranges herself, pulls back her shoulders and walks swiftly away.
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